Chapter 261
Chapter 261
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 261
Chapter Title: Chapter 261
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 261
Chapter Title: Planting Stakes in Enemy Territory (2)
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And two weeks later, at Gdynia Castle on the western coast of Warsaw.
After issuing orders from the Glopino Plains to disperse our expeditionary force into divisions and seize the western coastal region, I led one of those divisions straight to Gdynia Castle.
As I'd expected, there wasn't a single soldier inside the castle wearing proper armor—let alone any who were uniformly dressed in even threadbare castoffs you could call military.
If you had to nitpick, with the city's security forces gone, vigilante groups were doing a half-hearted job of manning the walls in their place.
The moment I demanded surrender and ordered the gates opened, the local bigwigs leading those left in Gdynia Castle came forward with immediate declarations of submission.
The other divisions I'd sent to various points along the western coast had slight variations in the process, but every report came back the same: gates opened without a fight.
Yet a sigh slipped from my lips all the same.
"Commander, are you feeling under the weather? Your color's a little off."
I waved it off.
"Nah, Vincent. If I were sick, you think your sister here would just sit quiet?"
Like I said, nothing's wrong with me physically.
It's just that the sheer outrage of the Warsaw Grand Duchy's army stripping the castle bare on their way out was so insane it had me grinding my teeth—and sighing without meaning to.
If those bastards could read my mind—the ones who'd cleared out every last soldier from this castle and fled with all the Warsaw nobles in tow—they'd probably shoot back:
'This is scorched earth, Peter Jaeger! If you're mad, don't invade someone else's land!'
Cowardly pricks requisitioned nearly all the grain the civilians needed to last until next harvest and bugged out.
Strategically and tactically sound, sure—but I'd figured even the Grand Duke of Warsaw, if he had any political future, would stop short of this for basic image control...
"Glad it's nothing serious. As you know, Commander, your health isn't just your own business. I'm begging you—as an officer in the Expeditionary Force Commander's Secretariat and, personally, your brother-in-law."
Charlotte nodded along with Vincent's plea, backing him up.
From what I knew, brothers and sisters were supposed to squabble since the Stone Age—so why was this family always so damn tight-knit...?
After some small talk to ease the mood, I turned to Vincent.
"I had you scout Gdynia Castle's situation posing as an Imperial Army grunt. What's the public mood toward the Empire's forces?"
"Not great, thanks to the plundering and village burnings in the western coastal zone last time. Back-alley talk had groups banding together to chase out the Reich Imperial Army."
"With tempers flaring, any beatings or killings of surly citizens or serfs? Unit self-inspections say our strict discipline threats have kept command-defiers in check."
"They threaten with drawn swords on those ignoring lawful orders, or whack overly defiant types a few times with clubs, from what I hear. But no back-alley whispers of locals getting run through, or rape and looting rampages..."
"So control's holding firm across the board."
First order I gave the men on entering Gdynia Castle: no needless violence.
I warned that any excessive crackdowns would get them court-martialed by my hand.
Naturally, the same went for my other divisions policing the rest of the cities.
In this world of medieval machismo and zero POW rights, sparing occupied civilians rape or murder—and looting just half their stuff—earned bard ballads hailing you as a saint.
By 21st-century standards, my Geneva-style civilian protections might paint me as a pushover.
With coastal villages already ransacked and goodwill in the toilet, one wrong bloodshed could spark mass revolts. Hence the policy.
Soldiers obeying? Good—no sudden rebel infernos in western coastal towns on my watch.
I pressed two silvers into Vincent's hand for his efforts.
"Good work. Holiday shift, so that's holiday pay from me. Tomorrow, I'll clear your duty by authority—rest up unless something blows up."
"Thank you, sir."
"Oh, and relay this to the division provost on your way: year-end evals coming. Promotion means zero screw-ups here. Nail soldier discipline till peace talks, though? Bonus and a rank guaranteed."
Discipline management meant preempting trouble, sure—but mostly catching culprits and punishing hard.
Victory high, grade-school education levels, no human rights awareness: occupation mishaps were inevitable.
Not just market food snatches—rapes, murders, looting were the real risks.
Can't preempt everything, but public executions vent victim rage before it explodes.
Plus, builds Reich Imperial Army trust.
Vincent scampered off; I gingerly slit open the letter he'd left—from His Excellency Minister of Military Affairs Keitel.
Could've ripped it careless, but this was the reply to my begging rations for two million western coastal souls against starvation.
Even Minister Keitel had to be seething inside.
Felt scarier than any bad battlefield.
[To my dear Count Peter von Jaeger: Your Warsaw report reads well. True to form, you've outdone expectations here too. As your Stockholm expedition vice-commander, I'm proud. Befits the Empire's treasure general.]
...A noble sparing flowery fluff even in rote New Year's cards sends this?
Pure setup for rage-bomb sentences ahead.
Throat dry with dread, I read on.
[You request supply aid for the Empire's good. My duty as Minister to provide—and you're no waster. Passed it straight to His Majesty, who replied: 'Jaeger's asking rations for 300,000 man-years. Double it halfway more. More aid, the better, in times like these.']
Requested 300k accounting for transit spoilage—450k year-supply...?
His Majesty's grace overwhelming; gratitude choking me.
[Knowing you, I dialed to 350k. Wrangled Finance Minister long and hard, camped General Staff Logistics doing paperwork myself. Stockholm stake-sharpening inspired the troops—same vibe now.]
Rest detailed monthly sea haul of 10k man-years, land 3k—13k total arrivals.
Logistics staff slaving round-clock to max capacity—no one home.
Meeting victorious-return with Commander Keitel? Goosebumps already.
Charlotte eyed my tension worriedly—then a voice outside:
"Western coastal castles' notables here. Office?"
"No—reception hall."
Max gains here or get flayed by His Excellency Keitel.
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